Caution: Fragile
by JustGoogleIt
Summary: This story is my interpretation of the song "This Glass Could Shatter" by Eddplant. If you haven't heard the song yet, I would suggest listening to before reading in order to understand all of the references (and also because it's just a really awesome song). TRIGGER WARNING: Rated M for self-harm and suicidal themes.


**A/N: The following story is my interpretation of Eddplant's song, "This Glass Could Shatter". Ben and Sarah are completely made-up characters. TRIGGER WARNING! Rated M for self-harm and suicidal themes.**

* * *

I was dragged out of dreamland by the annoyingly cheerful melody of my ringtone. I groaned and rolled over to retrieve my phone from the nightstand.

"Hello?" I asked groggily.

The voice on the other end was almost too quiet to make out, "Ben?"

I shook my head and blinked a few times, fighting the urge to drift off again. The glowing green numbers on my alarm clock displayed 3:37 am.

"Yeah," I answered, "What's up?"

"Did I wake you?"

"Kinda."

"I'm sorry," she said thickly, "I should have known. I'll, I'll go now. Good night."

"No," I said, sitting up, "It's fine. Seriously, what's wrong?"

All I heard from her end was sniffling and heavy breathing.

"Sarah, you can tell me," I tried again, getting out of bed. I walked to the other side of the room to turn on the light, tripping over my backpack and smashing my knee into the dresser on the way. It was all I could do to keep from cursing into the phone. Finally, I managed to get the light on and was momentarily blinded by the artificial brightness.

"I... I don't know what to say... I just... I'm sorry," my friend choked out.

"What the hell happened?" I asked, throughly alarmed.

She was sobbing then.

"Look," I said as gently as possible, "whatever it is, you can tell me. I want to help you."

She took a breath, "I... I did it again. I'm sorry, Ben."

I sighed quietly, "You cut."

The tiny whimper on the other end was enough to confirm my suspicions.

"Don't hate me," she sniffed.

"I could never hate you. It's just... I thought we were past this."

"I'm sorry, but I didn't know who else to call. It won't stop bleeding."

"Shit! Where are you?"

"At home."

"Is your mom there?"

"It doesn't matter," she answered bitterly, "She's wasted. She brought home some new guy and I could hear them fooling around for the longest time. I think they're finally asleep."

"How deep is it?" I asked as I stuffed myself into a pair of jeans and a hoodie, afraid to hear the answer. It had to be pretty bad for her to be calling me at such an hour.

"It's... substantial."

I sped up my dressing, cramming on my shoes and hurrying downstairs to the kitchen.

"Where'd you cut?"

"Don't hate me."

"I don't hate you," I repeated, as I scribbled a note to my parents:

_At Sarah's. It's important. Got my phone. ~ Ben_

_ "_It was stupid. I was just so... angry at her."

"Where is it?" I asked again.

"My arm... but it won't stop bleeding this time. There's a lot of blood. I think it's because I cut the wrong way... I just... couldn't feel it anymore."

"I'm calling 9-1-1!"

"Don't! Please, don't! It's not that bad!" she cried urgently.

"Sarah, you need help! I don't know if I can handle this myself!" I searched through my pockets frantically. Where were the bloody keys?! I ran to the closet and tore through my parent's coats until I found a set.

"Promise me you won't call them!" she sobbed, "Promise me, Ben! I'd rather die than have them find me like this!"

"Sarah!" I pleaded, "You hav-"

"If I hear those sirens..." She interrupted, "...I have the blade right here."

"Okay! Okay! I won't call!" I promised. I jumped into the car, started the engine, and backed out like I was in a NASCAR race. "I'm on my way over. Just hang in there, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered.

I kept her talking as I flew down the dark, deserted streets with complete disregard for the traffic signals. I wondered what I would say if a cop pulled me over. _I'm sorry sir, but my best friend is probably bleeding out on her bedroom floor. No, there's no need to call an ambulance; I am highly medically qualified. Well, I took one class anyway._..

"Is it still bleeding?" I asked.

"Yeah," she replied weakly.

"You have to put pressure on it."

"I'm trying. I have it wrapped in paper towels."

"Is it soaking through?"

"Well... kinda... yeah."

I groaned and pushed down even harder on the gas pedal, "I'll be there in like, one minute, okay?"

"Okay."

What was I supposed to do? What was the right thing to do? I felt so helpless. She could be dying on the other end of that line, but I dared not tell a soul.

* * *

"I'm here," I said as I pulled into the driveway next to what I assumed to be her mother's boyfriend's car. "Is the door unlocked?"

"I think so," she said quietly, "Mom never remembers to lock it when she goes out."

I ran up the porch stairs and let myself into the dark, silent house.

"Where are you?" I asked into the phone.

"My room," came the response.

I ran down the basement stairs to Sarah's room, trying to mentally prepare myself for the sight that I would find. I failed miserably.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Sarah! What have you done?!" I wailed upon seeing her.

"I'm sorry, Ben."

She was sitting on the floor in a tank top and pajama shorts, her back sort of slumped up against the bed, a razor next to her. Her face was deadly pale and she held a blood-soaked paper towel to her left arm. Blood was everywhere; I had never seen so much in my life. It was on the floor, the bed, her clothes... even the wall.

"Please let me call!" I begged as I scanned her body. The room smelled sort of metallic, like copper, and it was all I could do to keep myself from throwing up.

"You promised," she reminded me weakly. "Please, just help me? You took that class, right?"

The class she was referring to was a J-term elective on CPR, AED, and basic first aid. It did not provide detailed instructions on preforming in-home blood transfusions on semi-suicidal teenagers.

I swallowed hard, "Yeah, and according to that class, step one is to call 9-1-1."

"Then skip to step two," she said wearily. "Please."

I had a choice in that moment. She was in such a weakened state from the blood loss that if I called for an ambulance, she would have no way of following through on her threat before I could stop her. I could get her help. But those eyes, those sad, scared, exhausted eyes pleaded with me to keep my word.

"Fine," I whispered horsely, "I'll try."

I ripped the sheets off her bed, knelt down next beside her on the floor, and with shaking hands eased the paper towel off so that I could take a look. Immediately, I realized that was a bad decision. The blood flowed and spurted forth from the long, diagonal gash with a vengeance.

I cursed. As quickly and tightly as possible, I wrapped the sheet around her arm again and again, watching in horror as the blood soaked through each layer. With both hands, I held her arm tightly. Sarah leaned back and moaned.

My mind raced as I desperately tried to remember what to do next. "I think you're supposed to lie down flat or something, for shock."

She nodded. "You better have gotten an A in that class."

"B minus," I answered as I lay her down on her back, "but I swear, it's just because I don't test well."

"That's what you always say," she smirked.

I didn't smile.

"I'm so sorry Ben," she whispered. "Don't hate me."

"Stop saying that."

She closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you fall asleep either," I said as I shook her gently. I felt like such a horrible person, keeping her from the peace that unconsciousness would bring.

"I'm so tired," she muttered.

"I know you are. But let's talk instead," I tried. "Were you... giving up?"

"No," she answered slowly, "I mean, not at first. I just wanted to escape for a bit."

"By cutting?"

"How else?"

I sighed. "We talked about this. There are always alternatives. You don't have to hurt yourself."

"I tried the alternatives... all of them. I journaled, I distracted myself, I took a shower, I screamed into a pillow, I held the ice cubes, I snapped the rubber bands, I drew the butterfly, I called a friend..."

"Who did you call?" I interrupted.

"You."

"When?"

"About midnight. You didn't answer."

I checked my phone. Sure enough, there was one missed call from Sarah. "I'm sorry. I had just gotten home from work then; I was probably in the shower."

"Not your fault," she said, her words slowing even further and beginning to slur. "Well... I ran out of... alternatives. I didn't mean to... go too deep... not at first anyway, but... you know..." She started drifting off again, so I shook her awake.

"No, I don't know. Tell me," I pleaded. I had to keep her talking.

"I just, wanted something... to change, you know? All the normal stuff wasn't working, so I thought maybe something extreme would. I thought... I don't know what I thought, but I hoped that... maybe if there was enough blood... she would care ... Mom would care. She would believe me... that it's not just... a phase..."

"What do you mean by believe you? Did you tell her?"

Sarah sighed, "We... we were fighting. She kept saying that she deserved ... more respect from me, and I ... I couldn't take it. I said, why should I respect you when ... all you do is hurt me, and she said... when have I ever hurt you... and I... I pulled up my sleeve and I showed her. Do you know what she said?"

I shook my head, "What?"

"She said, 'I didn't... do that... to you! You did it... to yourself... you little... attention whore!'"

Tears streamed down her face at the recollection of her mother's words. I was horrified, but I forced myself to keep it together.

"So, you cut yourself to make a statement, and now you won't let her see it?"

"It was a stupid idea. She would just... get mad that I... stained the carpet. She doesn't... care."

I don't know how long the two of us sat there; it felt like hours, although it was probably only a few minutes. I felt like such an idiot. How long had I known about her self-harm and kept it a secret? Did I really think that I could take care of it myself? That I was really capable of helping her through such a serious addiction without consulting a single other person? We were just kids! Guilt consumed me. Why hadn't I done something back when I had the chance? Months ago, when I first saw the scars, not while she lay in a pool of her own blood and I shook her exhausted frame relentlessly to keep her from drifting away forever. It was so pathetic.

Finally, I decided that there was nothing else I could do. She was practically unconscious anyway, so she couldn't protest. I may lose my best friend, I thought, but at least maybe I wouldn't _lose_ my best friend. I unlocked my phone and quietly pressed those three numbers that spelled my betrayal.

"9-1-1, please state your emergency," came the cold response.

I'm sorry Sarah, I thought. I should have done this long ago.

* * *

Her mom came downstairs at the sound of the ambulance, wearing only a slinky nightgown and hurriedly attempting to cover herself with a blanket.

"What the hell?" she exclaimed, scanning the bloody room in shock. The longer she stood there, gaping, the more furious I became.

"Just look at her!" I yelled at the confused, intoxicated woman. "Look at your daughter! Did she get your attention now?!"

And she looked. She watched as Sarah was lifted onto a stretcher by a team of EMTs and supplied with oxygen through a mask. She watched as they strapped her in and hurriedly brought her upstairs while we followed along behind. She watched as they prepared to load her into the ambulance. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. True rage and disgust boiled inside of me.

"Feel something!" I screamed at her. Then I hit her, hard, right across the face.

I'm not proud of it, but I don't exactly regret it either. It was the only time I'd ever hit a woman. One of the EMTs jumped up and grabbed me firmly by the shoulders, as if afraid I would tear her limb from limb.

"Settle down kid!" he hissed, "One victim is plenty!"

Her mom continued to stand there, staring blankly at the enraged boy covered in her daughter's blood. I glared back. Then tears began to fall down her cheeks.

"Get some clothes on," I said through gritted teeth, "and I'll drive you to the hospital." I took a deep breath before continuing, "Because you're going to be there for her when she wakes up."

She just nodded and ran up to her room. Two minutes later, we sped off after the ambulance.

* * *

Three months passed, that horrible night perpetually haunting my nightmares. I didn't so much as speak to Sarah; they said it would be best for both of us. She needed time to process everything, to recover, and to get some real, professional help. That's what they told me anyway. In reality, I think they were just protecting me from the inevitable consequences of my life-saving decision; my best friend hated my guts.

She should have died that night; she had managed to cut several veins and even nick her radial artery. I was declared a hero by the Red Cross for my "life-saving first aid intervention and activation of the emergency response system." But I didn't feel like a hero at all; I was a traitor. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the look on her face when she first heard those sirens approaching. It was such a mix of surprise, betrayal, and disgust. Her best friend had turned on her. Given up.

The call that Saturday afternoon was from her mother of all people.

"Ben?" the woman asked hesitantly.

"Yeah?"

"I think Sarah wants to call you, but she's too scared. She's home now. Has been for a few weeks. Maybe, you could call her or something, you know, if you're still..." she trailed off.

"I'll be over in fifteen minutes," I answered.

* * *

I decided to walk to Sarah's house, thinking that I could use the time to think up something to say to her. By the time her mother let me into the house, I had come up with nothing.

Sarah sat on the living room couch, staring blankly at the TV as it played some rerun of a terrible sitcom. In a sweater and long pants, she appeared completely unscathed. She barely glanced up at me as I walked in.

"Hey," I tried.

"Hey," she acknowledged.

"What's up?"

"Not much. You?"

"I just thought maybe we could hang out or something. Do you want to go to that little coffee shop you really like? The one at that outdoor shopping place?"

"You have a car?" she asked skeptically, "That's pretty far away."

"We could take the bus. Please?"

She sighed and rose to her feet, "Well, they do beat the pants off Starbucks."

"That's the spirit!" I smiled back.

* * *

The walk to the bus stop was awkward; neither one of us seemed to know what to say. After a short wait, we boarded and headed to the far back of the almost empty vehicle. We sat next to each other for awhile, just looking out the window and watching the buildings whiz by. The phrase, 'elephant in the room' had never felt more appropriate.

Eventually, I broke the silence. "What are you thinking about?"

"We could die, Ben," she answered, as though she had been waiting for me to ask. "We're in mortal danger."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, thoroughly confused.

"I mean, what if the driver gets distracted, crashes into something, and flips the bus over? Then we'd be thrown out of our seats and probably die."

"I guess that's a possibility..."

She went on. "Or, look at those buildings outside. Imagine if a bomb went off, or if there was a gas leak or whatever, and one of them exploded." She gestured at the windows surrounding us. "Then all of this glass would shatter into millions of deadly pieces and kill us."

"Well, technically speaking, the windows are made out of safety glass, so it wouldn't shatter as much as it would-"

"Fine," she interrupted me, "maybe we wouldn't die from the glass. But we could still die from the other shrapnel. Or the explosion itself. The point is, we would have no say in it whatsoever."

"Look, if you'd rather not ride the bus, I can make the driver let us off," I offered with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes. "That's not what I meant. I mean, we're always in danger. We don't know exactly when or how, but at some moment, we'll all breathe our last breaths and be dead."

She took a breath before continuing. "I lied that night, Ben. I told you that I wasn't trying to end my life: that it was an accident. It wasn't. I knew what I was doing; I was taking matters into my own hands."

I was confused. "If you wanted to die, then why did you call me?"

"Don't hate me."

"I don't hate you. Not then, not now, not ever," I said firmly.

She sighed. "It was so selfish. When I saw all the blood, I got scared. I thought about how I would be found there, who would find me, what they would think... after I was gone. I wouldn't have any control over that either. I just wanted someone to sit with me, and _care_. Then I could be sure it ended the way I wanted it to... I'd take the initiative or whatever."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, who gets to decide how they'll die anyway? Who decides how they'll be remembered? No one likes me, Ben. No one cares about me except you. Not my teachers, or my classmates, or my deadbeat dad, or my own mother. They all think I'm a stupid, dramatic girl who just wants attention."

I shook my head, "That's not true."

"But it is!" she cried, "I did want their attention! I thought, maybe if I ended it like that, I could force them to care. My mom was right; I am an attention whore."

"Sarah," I choked out, "Just because you wanted their attention doesn't mean you didn't deserve it. Or need it."

"But how pathetic is that? How pathetic is it all? Look at this!"

She pulled up her left sleeve, giving me the first glimpse of her arm I had seen in months. The scar was long and jagged, spanning nearly all the way from her wrist to her elbow. In addition, a series of smaller, horizontal marks were visible underneath, evidence of the months of cutting that led up to that night. She opened and closed her hand a few times, and I saw that her last two fingers did not move from their slightly curled position.

"Apparently, I damaged some nerves too," she said bitterly. "It's fitting, really. I made two scars in my flesh to remind me of that night. The one I intended to make is external, and it will forever attract the stares of anyone who sees it. The one I didn't intend is internal. You can't see it from the outside, but it's the truly debilitating one. It means that I can no longer function the way that humans are designed. I'm in pain because I'm broken on the inside, where no one can see. Just like life."

* * *

We sat at a little table outside of the coffee shop, sipping lattes and watching the various shoppers walk past. It never ceased to amaze me how life perpetually marched forward, oblivious to the casualties strewn on its sidelines.

"You keep telling me not to hate you," I said as I placed my coffee cup down on the table, "but I'm still wondering... do you hate me?"

Sarah thought for a second. "I did at first," she admitted, gazing into her drink in shame. "But not anymore. How could I? If you hadn't have called that night, I would be dead. Which I may or may not have wanted... I still don't really know. But when I was going in and out of consciousness, and you were shaking me to keep me awake, I kept thinking that any one of those blinks could be my last glimpse of the world. And I was sort of glad, because that meant you would be in it. My last glimpse would be evidence that someone really did care about me. That's all I ever wanted, Ben. Someone in this cold, unfeeling universe to care."

"What you don't seem to realize," I said with a slight smile, "is that we all do. Want someone to care, that is. I mean, I couldn't put it as eloquently as that, but you basically just summed up life. Everything that we do is to try and get other people to care. We make art, we play music, we write poetry, we go on social networking sites, we change our appearance, we hide our undesirable aspects, we make small talk with strangers... it's all just an attempt to get people to care that we're alive. To look at us and think that we're worth something. To feel... loved."

She was crying yet again, so I kept going.

"And then when that doesn't work, and we can't make them like us, we just try to get them to notice us. We'll take anything; even their disapproving glares, just to feel that we are affecting the world in someway or another. So we destroy our own flesh by self-mutilation, or self-starvation, or by completely giving up self-respect, and we pray that someone cares enough to stop us before we go hurdling over the edge."

"I'm sorry Ben," she sobbed.

I scooted my chair over until we were sitting side by side, and rolled up her left sleeve as gently as possible. Then I rolled up the right sleeve of my own hoodie, exposing those stupid little marks that I spent so much of my life trying to hide, and intertwined my fingers with hers.

"I care," I whispered in her ear.

"Me too," she wept.


End file.
